


Lady Killer

by Anonymous



Category: Historical Criminals RPF, Real Person Fiction, Ted Bundy - Fandom, True Crime - Fandom, True Crime Community
Genre: Abduction, Attempted Murder, Brutality, Cruelty, Disturbing Themes, Evil, F/M, Graphic Description, Horror, Kidnapping, Macabre, Possible Character Death, RPF, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killers, Sexual Violence, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 11:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17806772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “You can call me, ‘Ted.’”





	Lady Killer

**Author's Note:**

> This is exactly what you think it's going to be. Don't read this unless you're fully prepared for VIOLENCE, KIDNAPPING, TORTURE, and RAPE. Ted Bundy was not a cute little cinnamon roll. He was a serial killer, rapist, necrophile, pedophile, cannibal. I went through something terrible a few years ago, writing this was a way to help let go of some of the things that happened to me and the fear that I felt. Please do not romanticize this monster. That's not what this fic is.

Lazy, tired, bored. The air in the room is still thick, heavy with the stench of cigarettes and marijuana; though you’ve been painfully sober since before you even came here. Music rings out from the television in the living room, some artist singing some song you’ve never heard before. You run your hands through the faded carpet beside you, fingertips tugging and pulling at tiny strands of fluff when they catch in the cracks of your nails.     
  
It’s almost that time of year again, when the sun seems to creep down below the horizon far sooner than it did the evening before. It’s only about a twelve minute walk from here to your apartment. If you wanna get home before nightfall and still catch tonight’s episode of Charlie’s Angels you’d better get a move on.    
  
“Hey, uh, Nance?” A grunt of effort escapes your lips when you rock your body forward into a seated position. You tilt your head to the side as far as you can, trying to stretch away the discomfort of lying on the floor for so long. “I think I’m gonna uh... Think I’m gonna get to heading back now.”    
  
A pair of bare legs dangling over the edge of the bed above and beside you suddenly kick out in excitement.    
  
“Oh, I almost forgot! Before you go— Just real quick— I’ve got something else I want to show you!”    
  
Your best friend flashes a mouth full of polished teeth, eyes glistening with excitement as she all but pounces across the room and rips open the drawer of her dresser.    
  
“Here!” A manicured hand punches out towards you, wielding a small stack of envelopes in its grasp. “I’ll bet you’ll never guess who these are from!”    
  
Head swirling with confusion, you rise to sit on the cushioned stool in front of Nancy’s vanity. Timid, careful, you open one of the envelopes and set the rest down behind you. It’s a letter. Pink. A dull whiff of Old Spice hits your nostrils as soon as you unfold it, the mark of a few not-so-subtle sprays of cologne before sending. It’s obvious before reading that this is most definitely from one of Nancy’s suitors, so you skim the lines as quickly as you can. It’s only when you reach the end that you understand why she wanted so badly to show you these. A signature at bottom far-right of the paper elegantly reads: Donald Schwartz.    
  
Mouth suddenly agape, you glance back up at Nancy and fully expect her to suddenly shout, “Psych!” The moment passes, and all you can do is let out an awkward gasp.    
  
“Jesus, Nance. Is this— This is our Mr. Schwartz? From high school?”    
  
Nancy pulls her lip between her teeth to keep from smiling.    
  
“You’re serious? No kidding?”    
  
Her hair bounces across her shoulders as she quickly shakes her head. “Isn’t it something?”    
  
“It sure is.” You let out a little huff of laughter, trying hard to stifle the gnawing feeling in your gut.    
  
It’s no secret to Nancy that you’d had a crush on Mr. Schwartz since you were in the tenth grade. You’d doodled little pictures in your notebooks, daydreamed about the day he’d leave his wife and whisk you away to some secluded island in the Bahamas. You were absolutely smitten for the man, but there’s so surprise that after graduation he’d end up flirting with your best friend instead of you.    
  
As sad as it makes you feel, things like this are almost to be expected at this point. Men don’t ever seem to want you the way they want Nancy. Long, lithe legs; sun-kissed skin, hair that always seems to lay perfect now matter how she wears it. You’ve always felt like a shadow in her presence, so painfully outshined by her beauty and grace. Nancy’s the type of girl that lights up a room. The kind that people notice.    
  
And you love Nancy. You do. Her accomplishments and her ability to have any man she wants are things you feel genuinely proud of her for— things you would never wish to be taken from her no matter how badly you want them for yourself. It’s just that sometimes you wish someone would notice you that way. Someone handsome. Someone special.    
  
You’re suddenly aware that you haven’t said anything in a while, eyes locked in a stare with the letter in your hand. You let out another little laugh and shake away the thoughts from your head before rising up to your feet.    
  
“Come back over tomorrow?”    
  
Nancy peers up at you hopefully, hands clasped together in her lap. You give her a smile and pull your bag over your shoulder.    
  
“Sure thing, Nance.”    
  
You’ve been here enough times that she doesn’t feel the need to walk you out anymore, so she offers you one more wave farewell before you head out to leave.    
  
It smells like rain. It lingers in the air, like sweat on your skin as you make your way down the weathered steps leading down from Nancy’s doorway.    
  
You check your wristwatch and see that it’s later than you thought, so you quicken your pace to make up for lost time. It isn’t a long walk by any means, but you’re no stranger to becoming distracted and adding on a few too many minutes to the journey. Crossing the empty street in front of you, you wonder to yourself what you should make for dinner tonight— if you should take a risk on the leftovers in your fridge or indulge in spending a few extra dollars on a freshly delivered pizza. Maybe if you make it home early enough you’ll be able to place your order far before your show comes on. There’s nothing you like better than eating a hot meal while watching something good on television.    
  
Bam!    
  
There’s a loud banging-sound somewhere in the distance, though at first you pay it no mind. Head cast down, you keep your eyes locked onto your shoes and watch mindlessly as you step on the damp leaves on the sidewalk below.    
  
Bam! Again. Closer now.    
  
This time your footsteps slow to a near-stop. Parked just on the edge of the street up in front of you is a beat-up yellow Volkswagen— or is it brown? You can’t really tell in this light. There’s a man hunched over in front of the opened passenger-side door, struggling with what looks to be a small bit of furniture.    
  
You tell yourself to ignore him, to just keep walking. You’re certain he’ll be able to get it himself eventually, but when he stands and throws an arm over the roof in exhaustion you finally see it— the stark-white cast on his arm, freshly-placed and still unmarked with mud or debris. He fumbles once more with what you can see now is a very small nightstand, and a pang of hurt stabs through your chest at the sight.    
  
You open your mouth to answer only to find it cotton-dry. Talking to strangers has never come easily to you, always nervous and uncomfortable with yourself. Tripping awkwardly over your own tongue for a minute, you’re at last able to make out a tiny croak of inquisition.    
  
“Need some help, Mister?”    
  
The man freezes just before letting the dresser tumble back down onto the damp sidewalk beside his vehicle. He lets out a little self-deprecating laugh before using his unwounded arm to scratch the top of his head.    
  
“Yeah— It’s uh... Sure starting to look that way, huh?”    
  
He turns to look at you, smiling sheepishly; all handsome features and movie-screen eyes, and it takes everything within you not to just throw yourself at him right here and now.    
  
“I— I uh...” As simple a task it may seem, you find yourself completely unable to use your words.    
  
He’s older than you. You can see it in the lines of his brow, the crinkles in his cheeks when he pulls his lips back over his teeth. His irises are blue— almost painfully blue— and you find yourself both terrified to keep eye-contact and somehow unable to look away.    
  
“Can’t seem to do anything with this damned thing on.” The man chuckles, giving you another opening to speak again.    
  
“Here.” You offer, as pleasantly as you know how. “Please. Let me just— Let me help you with that.”    
  
Graciously the man steps back, gives you just enough room so that you can bend over to grasp the piece of furniture with both hands. From here you’re close enough now that you can smell him; the spiced fragrance of his cologne. It’s familiar, strong, almost like booze on his skin. You lift the nightstand easily, finding it much lighter than you’d expected it to be.    
  
“Ah gee, I really appreciate this... Such a blessing you came along. For a minute there I thought I was gonna be fooling around out here all night.”    
  
“Heh. No problem.” You let out a dramatic grunt, trying to scoot and steady the item in its seat. “Happy to help.”    
  
You can feel your hands starting to shake, wanting to turn around and ask him his name and if he lives in the area. Questions, compliments, ways to stall and keep him talking to you for even just a little bit longer all race through your head as you take your time trying to buckle down the tiny nightstand. Everything about this stranger is attractive to you. You‘re afraid you’ll never get the chance to talk to someone like this again, so you promise yourself not to let him slip through your grasp.    
  
I met the most dreamy-looking man today. You imagine yourself telling Nancy over the phone later tonight once you’re back in your room. It was right across the street from your house. I helped him put something into his car, and he was so grateful he offered to take me out to dinner tomorrow night. Isn’t that something, Nance?    
  
Warmth slaps across your cheeks, and you can’t help but stifle a grin at the fantasy.    
  
“There we go. I think that’ll hold— Just until you get back home at least. Where did you say you— Sir?”    
  
You turn around to offer the beautiful stranger a smile, expecting him to still be standing only a mere few feet behind you. Instead, it’s as if he’s left the area entirely.    
  
“Sir? Where did you—?”   
  
Something hard strikes against your skull. Your neck jolts to the side from the force of it, so violently quick that your brain doesn’t even have time to process the pain of it. There’s a burst of light behind your eyes, and then at once a veil of blackness that seems to drop like a curtain over your body.    
  
The last thing you see before going unconscious is the man’s face; scrunched up in anger with an arm raised high over his head.   
  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
  
When at last you wake up again you’re alone. It’s nearly completely dark, save for the light of what looks to be a furnace at the far right side of the room. Still, when your eyes slowly start to flutter open you can’t help but flinch away at the dim rays of what might be dusk— or maybe even dawn.    
  
Agony ricochets like a stray bullet throughout the length of your spine. You’re too afraid to move, the pain in your neck so absolutely frightening to you when you try and fail to lift your head. You sniff the air, carefully, trying to see if you can smell your own blood. Whatever the damage to your skull is, you’re far too scared to reach up and feel around yourself.    
  
“Where am I?” You ask, too quietly for anyone to possibly be able to hear you; though it only takes you about a minute to work out the fact that you’re lying on the floor of someone’s basement.    
  
The air is dank and cool and heavy, a tiny sliver of a window carved into the concrete wall at the edge of the room. This must be Nancy’s basement. There must have been some kind of accident, some kind of strange misunderstanding. That handsome man from before— maybe it was nothing at all but a dream. With your head swirling around the way it is now, it certainly does seem to feel that way.   
  
You’re vaguely aware that there’s something hard and cold around both of your wrists, but you’re still in too much of a daze to process what it is. Another wounded hiss escapes from between your teeth. It hurts. It hurts so much, you wish you could just slip back into unconsciousness and stop feeling it all for a while.    
  
Maybe they don’t know how badly you’re hurt. Maybe they put you down here to sleep it off, and didn’t think to take you to the hospital after whatever had knocked you out. Maybe you’d fallen on the steps leaving from Nancy’s house, and then— Oh God.    
  
The memory returns, a tiny flash of what happened right there at the very front of your brain. The man driving that little car, the one you’d stopped on your way home to help. He’d hit you with with something, though it’s impossible now to remember exactly what. All you can remember is the noise it had made, like the sound a baseball makes when it strikes against an aluminum bat.    
  
Confusion and anger slam over you like a violent wave. You try to propel your body forward into a seated position, and this time you finally realize exactly what’s been placed on your hands.    
  
“What the Hell?”    
  
There are cuffs around your wrists, tight enough that you can already see the dark violet promise of bruises welling up beneath your skin. Aching and in pain from the blow to your skull you instinctively try to curl yourself up into a ball, only to find one of your legs locked painfully in place. A chain around your foot connects you to a metal pole in the center of the basement, like an animal that’s suddenly been caught in a trap.    
  
None of this makes sense, and as you look down at your body things only seem to get weirder.    
  
When you’d left Nancy’s you’d been wearing your favorite sweater; tight, thin, with stripes of varying shades of scarlet and green knitted all across the width of it. It’s only now, as you writhe around on the ground like a worm, that you’re suddenly aware you’ve been completely redressed.    
  
Your watch is gone, and so are your earrings. A plain white shirt, far too big to be your own replaces your sweater. Faded jeans that almost fit but feel old somehow, scratchy and uncomfortable against your skin; replace the slacks your parents had just given you for your birthday. Even your socks are different.    
  
There’s no denying it anymore, no way to try even if you wanted to. Something is wrong here. Something is really fucking wrong. Dread settles like a stone at the pit of your gut, skin crawling and prickling with gooseflesh. You were brought here. You were taken by force, and now you’re completely and utterly trapped. Your memory is absolutely certain— it was that beautiful man from before— but your mind won’t let you be convinced.    
  
People like that don’t kidnap girls. Men who look like that— they just don’t. It must have been someone else. Someone sick, disgusting, horrifying, vile. Vomit rises hot in your throat, imagining the sick creature that could have taken you like this. Your mind douses itself with fear and strikes up a panic-filled match, and to make matters worse you suddenly remember something that makes you slap a wrist over your mouth to keep from screaming.    
  
A girl your age went missing here about a month ago.    
  
Suddenly your body freezes in place, heart turning to stone in your chest. Someone’s coming. You can hear it. Light footsteps, the loudening creak of stairs as someone moves quickly down the steps at the far right of the room. You can feel your heart slamming against the underside of your ribcage like a hammer to the chest. Even still you force yourself to only breathe in and out as subtly as you can— a paradox so intense you’re sure you might black out any second now.    
  
You hear them reach the bottom and then stop. You wait. Hours must pass with no other movement, no other creak or sound to show that they’ve moved even an inch from where they stood. You open one of your eyes, slowly at first, just barely enough to see the shadowed figure at the other end of basement.    
  
Oh God. You were right— It is him. It’s that same fucking man, just standing there, staring at you like he has no idea how on earth you possibly got down here.    
  
“Who— Who are you?”    
  
The man shifts, slightly. The cast is gone.    
  
A hand raises to scratch the back of his neck before at last he answers, “See... Now that’s really not that important...”    
  
“Please, I don’t— I’m so— Please. Please, just... Just t-t-tell me who you are.”    
  
He presses his tongue to his cheek and pauses for a moment.    
  
“You can call me, ‘Ted.’”    
  
“Ted.” You somehow manage to pant out through violently chattering teeth, “Please, Ted, I—“    
  
“Ah, ah, ah. Don’t you wear it out.”    
  
Ted lets out a soft laugh, but it does nothing to put you at ease the way it had done earlier. There’s something about the sound of it— different now— and it makes your intestines coil up like a snake behind your belly.    
  
He takes a step forward. You jerk away, even despite the fact that he’s still on the complete opposite side of the room. Another step, another involuntary flinch. He stares at you for a minute, and there’s almost something smug about the way his face looks so at ease against the absolute horror of the situation around him.    
  
All of a sudden it changes. His features go lax, all save for the furrowing of his unkempt brows together. He tilts his head, parts his lips.    
  
“Why did you stop?”   
  
It takes you a second to realize what he’s asking.    
  
“Why did— wh-wh-why did I—?”    
  
“Why did you stop?”    
  
Blood begins to pound and roar in your ears. There’s an emphasis to his words, almost as if he’s disappointed in you; like a father asking why on earth you made the decision to do something wrong.    
  
“I—I— I don’t... I don’t know...”    
  
“You could have just kept going.” Ted shakes his head, takes another slow and looming step towards you. “You’d probably be at home right now; safe and snug inside and ready to go to bed. All you silly, pretty little college girls... You simply don’t learn.”    
  
For some reason it’s all you can think to say, and when you open your mouth it hardly comes out as anything more than a whisper; “I wanna go home. Please. Just let me go home.”   
  
His nostrils flare. He lets out a tiny snort of air.    
  
“That’s a shame, really. You’re never going home again.”    
  
Panic. Red. Fear. There’s a primal urge, like a neon sign flashing in the back of your mind: scream. So you do. You open your lungs and tilt your head back just enough so that you’re sure the sound will be able to claw its way out of your throat.    
  
He’s on you in a second. One hand over your mouth, the other tight around your neck. He squeezes you, thumb against your windpipe; lifts your head up and slams it back down hard against the thin layer of dirty carpet beneath you. He does it again, and even as your scream ceases he still won’t stop crashing you back down against the floor.    
  
Your skull must be open. If it wasn’t before, it certainly is now. Your brains must be leaking out of you like thousands of pink-grey worms, spilling all over the filthy carpet beneath you. Nothing has ever hurt like this. Hopefully nothing will ever hurt like this again.    
  
At last he stops. The hand around your throat loosens, and he backs up enough for you to catch your breath. Sobs wrack your body, shaking, crying the hardest you’ve ever cried since you were a little girl.    
  
Ted rolls his eyes.    
  
“The whining.” He groans. “Crying and whimpering... You know, you should be thankful you’re even alive right now... I can kill you whenever I like.”    
  
You shake your head desperately at him, unable to get a hold of yourself whatsoever.    
  
How can he possibly expect you to be quiet in a situation like this? He could he possibly be so detached? So callous? So fucking cold?    
  
A large hand reaches out toward your cheek; you do your best to wriggle away. Feather-light touches kiss the bruised skin over your brow, stroking you softly. It only takes a moment to realize he’s cooing you, trying to soothe you like a mother with a fussing baby.    
  
“You seem like a smart enough girl.” Slowly, as though he’s afraid of spooking you, he moves in close enough that you could smell his breath if you wanted. “I’m sure you’re no fool as to what’s going to come next for you— trapped down here against your will with a man on top of you, unable to get away.”    
  
You can feel yourself trembling now. It feels like all the blood has drained from your body, leaving nothing but a weak little shell.    
  
“Not that. Please... Not that.” There’s no heart to your words, hopeless and broken. It doesn’t even sound like your voice anymore when it spills from your lips.    
  
If he hears you, he doesn’t let you know. His eyes trace down the length of your body. You do your best to cover yourself with your bent arms, no use with the handcuffs still tight around your wrists. Then it hits you. In the pain and confusion from the blow to your head, you’re suddenly aware again that he’d left one of your legs free.    
  
Ted leans back to peel off his sweater, and you thrust out a kick right into the center of his belly.    
  
A burst of air escapes from his mouth, body crumpling forward in on itself. You take the opportunity to scream again, a vocal-cord-ripping shout that will surely be able to reach someone outside on the sidewalk above.    
  
“Somebody help me! Somebody get me out of here, please!”   
  
All too soon your captor is able to get his bearings. He’s on top of you again, using his knees to pin your thighs open so that he can weasel his way in between; and in the pale light coming through the window of the basement you can see the glimmer of a switchblade.    
  
“Better cut that out.” Ted threatens, holding it just high enough above your navel so that he knows you can see it. “Or the next thing I do you with won’t be as nice as what I’ve got between my legs. Do you understand me?”    
  
It takes you a second to realize the implication behind his words, but when you do your entire body goes still. There’s no more crying. There’s no more panicking, or writhing against him. There’s only compliance. Still, obedient, horror-induced compliance.    
  
Ted looks pleased with himself now. He reaches towards your face again, and when you don’t flinch away this time he smiles softly.    
  
“Such pretty hair.” He croons, taking a handful of it between his fingers and letting it fall out of his grasp. “You should have grown it out longer.”    
  
“I will if you let me g—“   
  
Your words earn you a hard slap to the face.    
  
Suddenly it all becomes clear to you, the way he treats any signs of resistance. He doesn’t want you to fight back. You aren’t supposed to be a victim. You’re supposed to be a toy. A lifeless, wordless, pretty little toy.    
  
“Now, you be perfectly still for me— and I won’t hurt you anymore than I have to.”    
  
It doesn’t seem real. This man doesn’t even know you, yet he’s kidnapped you; and now he’s going to— A gag lurches in your throat.    
  
Ted hooks his thumb into the hem of your shirt then raises it up to your collar in a bunch of white cotton. Your breath hitches in your chest when he reaches for the knife, then leaves in a sigh when he does nothing more with it than slice open the fabric. He lets it fall back down, then spreads it open so that your entire chest is bare and exposed.    
  
You don’t cry again, but the tears still come anyway. You can feels his hands on you again, fingers working at the button on your jeans. He rips them open inelegantly, a soft popping sound as the button pops off and falls somewhere on the carpet beside you. You make no moves to help him remove your jeans, dropping your deadweight down to make it a harder task than he’d intended.    
  
He peels off your socks while you stare numbly at the ceiling, but you’re almost certain you can hear him smelling them once he’s relieved them from your feet. All that’s left are your panties, which to your surprise are the same ones you’d put on yourself this morning; and he leans back as though to admire his work.    
  
It takes everything in you not to start begging again. Your mind is ablaze; ringing of bells and red light and questions so terrible they burn like acid against the back of your throat.    
  
How could you do this to me? You’ve never even met me! How could you want this? How could this do anything for you?    
  
Suddenly his mouth is on your belly; foreign and hot, and you hate the way your body melts under the wet warmth of it. His dirty fingers hook into the hem of your underwear and pull, making you shiver when his nails drag against your skin.   
  
Maybe it’s from the panic. Maybe it’s from the blows to your brain. Either way, you can’t stop the memory when it comes flashing back into your head; that rainy day after grade school when you’d asked your mom that question before dinner.    
  
“If someone bigger than me tries to grab me and take me with them, should I scream and yell? Or should I just listen and do what they say?”   
  
Her knife had slowed to a stop in her hand. She’d paused her a moment, then reached to wipe clean the sweat from her brow with the back of her forearm.    
  
“You should always listen to me and your father when we ask you to go somewhere with us. You know that.”   
  
“No.” You shook your head at her, trying to grasp for the words to make her understand. “I’m not talking about you or Papa or Grandpa and Grandma. I mean a bad person... One who wants to take me and hurt me.”    
  
Something strange and unfamiliar flashed in her eyes. She paused for a while.    
  
“You should scream.” She answered firmly at last, as though she’d just convinced herself or her answer. “Always. Scream as loud as you can.”    
  
“Even if they have a gun?”    
  
“Yes.”    
  
“Why?”    
  
“Because even if they shoot you right there, it’ll be a whole lot better than what they’re gonna do to you the second they get you alone in their house.”    
  
Reality comes crashing down like a mighty plague against your being.  _ You should scream, _ she’d said. How about that? This bastard on top of you, he hadn’t even given you the fucking  _ chance.  _ _   
_   
With one careless tossing of fabric over his shoulder you’re now completely bare. He takes himself into his hand; you can’t help but look. Something washes over your skin, like spoiled milk in your veins, and there’s no way to understand why looking at him naked makes you feel so goddamn filthy.    
  
His eyes, which had once been but two sparkling sapphires, are now as black and as lifeless as a rat’s.    
  
You’ve made love before. You’re no stranger to the mechanics of it, all those clumsy encounters with freckle-faced boys from your classes at the university. It doesn’t matter though. When he presses into you it’s like a knife to the cunt; tearing, ripping, burning. There’s nothing you can do but try and wince through it, eyes squeezed shut and lip clamped firmly between your teeth.    
  
Rape. The word flashes like a bolt of lightning across your eyes. That’s what he’s doing to you. He’s raping you, and there’s nothing you can possibly do to stop him.    
  
“Ah, yeah, see now that’s a very good little girl.” He grunts above you, hips moving violently between your legs. “Such a good little slut. A little college-educated slut.”    
  
His breath is hot in your face; sour and wet with liquor. His weight crushes your pelvis, and you can feel every vile inch of him as he drags in and out past the tears he’s made inside of you. You try and go lifeless, hoping that’ll make him finish sooner; but it doesn’t seem to work.    
  
He slaps a calloused hand over your throat again, squeezes until darkness creeps into the edges of your eyes.    
  
Kill me, you beg him silently. Just go ahead and kill me.    
  
Just as you think that he might, the grip around your neck loosens. Before you even have time to gasp he’s leaning back down, nearly crushing you with his weight; and a sharp stab of pain pierces through the skin of your shoulder. He’s biting you. Jesus Christ, he’s fucking biting you.    
  
The place where your bodies are joined grows hotter— wetter— and you can’t tell whether it’s blood or from him. Suddenly he stops. Surely it must be over. Surely this must be the end. He rears back his fist, and sends you plummeting into the same darkness you’d yearned for just a while ago.    
  
There’s a ringing in your ears. You aren’t sure at first, but you’re pretty sure you’re outside again. You can hear crickets in the distance, and under the stench of earth and blood you’re certain you can smell the lake in the distance. 

 


End file.
